Page 102 of The Homewreckers
“Mak, I’m over here at the house with Cass Pelletier, who you’ve met. She just told me something about Lanier Ragan and Holland Creedmore that I think you need to hear.”
“I’m listening,” Makarowicz said. “In fact, I’m on my way over to pay the Creedmores a visit right now.”
Hattie put the phone on loudspeaker and Cass leaned forward to recount the story she’d just shared. Her face was tense, her voice crackling with emotion.
“Fucker,” Mak said, when Cass’s humiliating ordeal was complete. “Motherfucker.”
“Yeah.” Cass’s voice was toneless.
“I’m sorry, Cass, but I need to ask you a couple questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you absolutely sure it was Lanier Ragan you saw that night, getting out of Holland Junior’s car?”
“I’m positive.”
“Any chance you remember the date this happened?”
“Not the date, but I know it was the Cardinal Mooney–Country Day game, because that was always the big rivalry. It was my sophomore year, so it would have been 2004.”
“That helps,” Mak said. “I can look that up, easy.”
“Did you ever let Junior know you’d seen him with Lanier Ragan?”
“No!” Cass was emphatic. “I would rather have died. Anyway, he never called me again. I’ve been trying to bleach that nightmare out of my brain for the past seventeen years.”
“Don’t blame you,” Makarowicz said. “Just one more question. Did he ever take you out to his parents’ house on Tybee? The house y’all are working on now?”
“You mean the hookup house? No. I was strictly his parking lot sidepiece,” Cass said.
“Good enough,” Makarowicz said. “I’ll need to get a written statement from you, but in the meantime, I appreciate your being straight with me. It can’t be easy, dredging up this ugly stuff all over again.”
“Yeah. It sucks,” Cass said, rubbing at her eyes. “I just feel bad for Lanier’s daughter.”
“I’ve talked to Emma,” Mak said. “She’s had a bad time, for sure, but she’s a tough little thing. A survivor. Kind of like you, Ms. Cass.”
“We’ll see,” Cass said, her voice trailing off.
Makarowicz parked his cruiser in the driveway, behind Holland Creedmore Jr.’s car. He allowed himself a grim congratulatory smile as he traversed the cracked concrete sidewalk to the front door. It was just eight in the morning. A set of golf clubs was leaned against the wall, and a pair of golf spikes was sitting beside the doormat.
He rang the doorbell, and waited. No answer. He turned around and looked out at the quiet street. It was a weekday. Most of the neighbors were at work, or inside, watching the news. At the house across the street, an older man trained a garden hose on a bed of wilted flowers. A mom pushed a stroller past, with a tiny, yappy dog trailing behind on a retractable leash. She stopped at the curb, waiting while the dog lifted a leg on the unmown grass.
Mak rang the doorbell again, then pounded on the door with his fist.
“Hang on, I’m coming.” The door opened a crack, with the chain lock engaged.
“Mr. Creedmore,” he started, but the door slammed.
“Not talking to you, asshole,” Creedmore called.
Makarowicz leaned against the door. “Lanier Ragan’s skeletal remains were found at your family’s property yesterday afternoon. You need to open this door, or I’ll arrest you and drag you out in handcuffs in front of all your neighbors.”
The door flew open. Holland Jr.’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
“We found Lanier Ragan,” Mak repeated loudly. “Right where you put her, seventeen years ago.”
Creedmore peered out toward the street. The old man across the street was leaning on the side of his car, unabashedly watching the unfolding scene before him while his hose trickled water on the driveway. The lady with the stroller and the dog were paused too.
